Pieced Together
by FranklyScarlett
Summary: A one shot revolving around R and S.


Disclaimer: Not making any money off this, Gone with the Wind belongs the the Mitchell estate, etc.

He is standing on the doorstep of the largest house in Atlanta. And he is thinking, thinking, thinking. He is thinking too damn much. He exhales, takes a key from his pocket, opens the door and is met by silence and ghosts. His eyes roam the walls, take in the house, this massive, crimson house. God, he doesn't remember it being so dark. Or maybe he remembers it being darker. Just now, his mind cannot recall. As he scans the house, he sees nothing and he sees everything; he does not see her. He closes his eyes, shuts them tight. Still he sees crimson. He shakes his head in an attempt to expel his thoughts.

As he closes the door he wonders why he expected her to be standing by the door. He expected her to be poised there, waiting for him. He expected her to be right where he'd left her on that evening a lifetime ago — or three years ago, he doesn't know the difference. But she isn't waiting there for him. He advances slowly into the room and is struck by the way his footsteps echo in the emptiness of the house. He walks to the stairs, looks to the top and he tries not to think.

As he walks up the stairs, he holds the banister tightly. He knows that all too well that it is a long fall. He reaches the top of the stairs and his feet follow the familiar path down the hall. He stops in front of her door but he does not knock, he does not go inside, not yet. He supposes that there is something to drink in his room but he does not allow himself to retrieve it. He forces himself to stay. His hand hesitates as he reaches for the door. His hand is shaking, shaking, shaking. He is being foolish. He knows that he is being foolish. He is thinking too much. He tries to calm himself, takes a deep breath. And then his hand is on the doorknob and it is turning and the door is opening. As he steps into her sanctuary his heart is beating fast, his heart is beating too fast.

Light is everywhere and there is her chemise laid delicately across the bed. She is here. His heart is hopeful, more hopeful than he has allowed it to be in so long. She is here. The door to her washroom is closed, and there is light seeping under the door. He can hear the soft slosh of water and he is sure he can smell the faint scent of her perfume. He stands there at the foot of her bed and he waits. He hears the sound of water draining and he waits.

Just before she opens the door he is convinced that when he sees her eyes they will be all the wrong color, for he is certain that in his dreams he has embellished their intensity, their beauty. But when the door opens and her eyes fall on him, they are exactly as he remembered. They are exactly right.

She is clad only in a thick white towel and when she sees him, she does not scream or gasp, she does not smile, she does not say a word. She only looks, stares at him with those emerald jewels she has for eyes. She does not look shocked or surprised. She looks as though she needs him. She looks like a work of art that has been slowly and steadily shattered and suddenly he wonders if for the rest of his life he will only see the broken pieces of the life they tried to fix.But he is willing to risk it. For the first time in his life his is really willing to risk his heart.

Until this moment he has thought of every perfect word to say, to tell her that she is the one constant in his life, the one woman he has always wanted, to tell her he is a fool; he has been without her too long and he needs her back. But now he cannot find a single word, cannot even muster a greeting for his wife. All of the things he had prepared to say suddenly seem trite, and false when he looks into her eyes.

He thinks of comparing himself to some love struck poet, or quoting Shakespeare, but he knows the allusion would be lost on her. The relevance of his words would be completely lost. But truthfully there are no words to tell her what he means. They look at each other for a century, for a second, time is suddenly confused. He does not know what she is thinking, he cannot read her and it scares him.

"Hello, Rhett." Her voice is a whisper, a balm on his wounds. And it is enough.

"Scarlett." He does not know if he said her name aloud —he only knows that he has missed her, missed her in a way that hurts. He needs her, he cannot live without her any longer.

Before he knows what he is doing, he is moving towards her and then she is right in front of him. He cups her beautiful face in his hands and he kisses her, he kisses her because it is the only thing he can think to do. He holds her and he kisses her and he does not think. He kisses her because it is the only language he trusts himself to use. It is the only way he knows how to tell her that she is everything. She kisses him and she does not think.

She is broken but he can fix her, he will fix her. He is broken as well and she is the only one who can mend his heart. They are broken, but they can be saved. Together they will heal the wounds that time could not. Together, they will be whole again.


End file.
